Some days, I thought to myself
What would become of the sky
If the sun had set an hour early
And the moon unwary
What would become of the sea
If the waters rose this morning
Two inches instead of three
What would become of the sand
If each grain had grown wings
Then tried to fly away
And as the salty air filled my hollow chest 
I stopped and think to myself 
What would become of me
If I was not myself
If I was not me